


I Hope That You Understand

by iamyourownforever (Keepcalmanddontgetangry)



Series: e/R - Canon Era [5]
Category: Les Misérables (2012)
Genre: Artist Grantaire, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Frottage, M/M, POV Enjolras, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 12:38:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5164136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keepcalmanddontgetangry/pseuds/iamyourownforever
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is not the best at expressing love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hope That You Understand

I have the greatest desire to reach out and touch him, although I know better than to do so. He looks up at me and smiles that smile that he has. The one where he shows his teeth and his eyes glisten. His cheeks are a shade of red.

"Enjolras," he says before rolling his head  in a slow circle to stretch his neck. He puts the thin tipped paint brush down as he does.

It is all he says. A flame lights in my stomach at the way he speaks my name. If it had not been pointed out to me, by Combeferre, how he savours each syllable I would never have noticed.  In a joking manner, Combeferre had said: "Do you ever notice the way Grantaire speaks your name sometimes? It is like he has the most bitter and the most sweet taste, in his mouth, all at once." I told him that I had not, but now that I do it is either all I hear or all I listen out for.

"Am I sitting right?" I ask, though I am not really sitting.

When we arrived at his room, earlier this afternoon, it had been transformed into the studio I had always imagined him to sit in. The light, from purposefully placed candles on the shelves around the room, flickered against the cream walls, washing them with an orange glow. He told me it was a technique used to enhance the features of the sitter through shadow. I saw it for what it was which, of course, was an attempted act of romance. He commented, too often, how good I looked at any time of day; and how beautiful I was in any light. Then again, I did recall something specific about candlelight. Nonetheless, I kept my mouth shut.

His bed had been transformed into a plush seat, covered in round, expensive looking, cushions, and a large navy sheet. It had been made up for me especially, I knew. There was no other reason for everything to be so intimate.

He asked me to recline against the cushions and bend one leg. I turned my head to gaze out his window, which had been covered, too, with a dark sheet to keep out the light from the street. As I did he had gasped, asking me not to move an inch. Then he came to stand over me, his rough fingers gently moulding my face into the expression he wanted it in. I saw the concentration in his eyes and felt my entire body go weak. Next he took my hands and positioned them individually.

My right hand he put beside my cheek, my elbow bent, with my index finger brushing the corner of my mouth. The rest of my hand was to be relaxed. The placement of my left hand made me nervous in a good way. Without thinking, he squeezed my fingers before laying my hand over my leg, fingers slipping between my thighs. It makes me hard thinking about how he envisioned me to look in the painting; how the story of my imagined thoughts, on the canvass, would be so close to my reality.

"You're sitting fine," he answers, clicking his wrists and then knuckles. "Try not to move too much while speaking. Better yet, do not speak at all!"

He laughs as I scowl. I know that he is only joking. I read somewhere, once, that he would not want me silent. Though I do not think he knows that.

"How much longer, Grantaire? I am beginning to feel stiff."

"I can see that," he teases, nodding at the length of my hard cock; its head is settled just below my belly button.

I have been hard for the majority of the painting. There is an odd seduction that comes with watching him work. Bent over a canvass, almost out of place behind it, with a brush in one hand and, often, paint in the other. It had not been a request for me to be naked, but I knew that, deep down, that was how he had wanted me. After all, each time he had asked to paint me we had been naked, as well as occupied in making love. When I began to strip down he had turned away, embarrassed.

"There is no need for you to... You do not have to be naked, Enjolras," he told me; turning back to glance down my body as if he had never seen it before. "I feel honoured enough to paint you, as it is. I never thought we would settle on a date. You are welcome to stay dressed."

"Would you prefer me to put my clothes back on?" I asked, stepping into his space. I held his buttocks as I gave him a kiss, marvelling at the sensation of my bare chest rubbing against the fabric of his shirt.

The silence that followed was his answer. The only sound in the room had been our breathing, which turned heavy in a matter of seconds.

"And do you paint exactly what you see?" I ask with a smile that had, on its own accord, crept onto my face.

"I would not be considered a realistic artist if I did not," he says, going back to the paint.

"And does this seem real to you?"

I see him blush as he grins. "No," he replies. "It does not." There is a pause. "But I hope it is," he says, and then in a whisper, "for the love of anything, I hope it is."

Neither of us speak for a long time. I watch him paint. That burning lights inside me again. It is a pleasure to witness him appear passionate about something other than his next bottle. He has not had a drink today, none that I have seen anyway. Some of the candles, I notice, flicker in the empty wine bottles that usually litter his room. Evidence of his creativity. I smile.

At last he sits back with a look of satisfaction on his face. "I'm done," he says with a smile of his own, getting up to come over to me. It must be dark outside by now. We have been here for hours.

"May I see?" I ask, ready to get up but he is already on me.

"In a bit," he says. "There are some things that I must see to first."

He thumbs my bottom lip and his eyes glow in the low light. I can tell, by the pressure of his fingers, just how much he has longed to reach out and touch me while painting. I had not been the only one.

"Such as what?" I ask. I grip the hair at the back of his head, glad to have him so close. "Cleaning your brushes? Washing your hands? Getting a drink?"

All he does is shake his head, smiling as he leans forward to kiss my neck. "No," he whispers into my ear. "Well, yes, eventually, to all you have listed. But not yet. First... first I must check that you are real. I have spent so long staring at you from a distance, and then at what I was creating. I began to lose myself within the swirls of paint and thought... and thought that there is no way, no way Enjolras is really here. The man himself, in the flesh, lying naked here, on my bed, as I do my best to capture his essence; his very soul. I am afraid that you may dislike it. I painted all that I saw. What am I to do if you do not like it?"

My arms are around his neck, holding his body close to my bosom as he gives his speech to the muscles of my neck. My fingers are lost in his dark curls.

"What indeed?" I ask, turning my head to kiss his thick cheek. He moves his head at the same time. Our lips come together instead.

It is one of his old tricks. We laugh together. I unbutton his shirt to feel his skin. He's ahead of me already, shuffling away to strip down to nothing too. When he lies beside me again we are both naked. I push a knee between his legs, and he groans into our kiss.

I feel the heat of his erection as it presses against my thigh. A moment later he is grinding against it. A hand fumbles towards my own erection. I gasp, my hips rise to greet his hand. Through all the clumsiness, attached to our position on the bed, we find a steady rhythm.   

"I cannot say whether or not I like your painting if I cannot see it," I huff before sucking his neck. I plan to leave a mark of love, and he very well knows it.

He moans a response that neither of us understand. It never fails to amaze me how easily we can make each other speechless. We argue so much it must make the others sick to hear our voices. I find his voice arousing, in the right context. He has told me that he loves  to listen to mine too.

I can feel a small trail of semen smear across the top of my leg. The prickle of his bollocks, which are being dragged along against me too, makes my muscles twitch. He squeezes my penis, letting the head leave its own mess on the lower half of his plump stomach. He is built so differently.

"You are too beautiful for me," he says. He takes both our erections into one large hand and squeezes them together. It is enough.

"Do not be ridiculous, Grantaire!" I reply, spilling into his hand. My words are scattered. I come as I speak his name. "You and I, we are equals. Do not dare believe anything otherwise."

In that instant there is something sticky, and warm, on my stomach. He gives a heavy sigh, burying his head into my side. I run my hands down his back, my eyes closed. We stay like this for an unknown amount of time. Holding onto each other as if it is the last thing we shall ever do. He is the one to move away.

"Ah, I am glad we saved that until after painting," he says as he wipes us both down with the sleeve of his shirt. "I do not know whether I would have had the energy to lift a brush, and study your likeness, now. Nor do I think I would want to leave your side, to sit away from you and paint. I am finding it difficult to do so now, even though I did say I would show you the painting after I checked that you were real, didn’t I? You certainly are real. Would you like to see it now?"

I hold his cheek. He stops talking to kiss my knuckles. "I would like to see it now."

He stands to offer me a hand. I take it. Together we walk to view his painting. He looks at the floor as I study the canvass. I squeeze his hand.

"It is..." I begin, but he cuts me off before I can find the words to describe the feelings that have welled up inside me. So often I have time to practise my speeches of passion. His painting has caught me off guard.

"Of course no one else will see it other than you and I. Actually, you are welcome to keep it if you are worried about it falling into the wrong hands. I would not want to embarrass you on two fronts; with a bad likeness, as well as an engorged view! The others know that I wished to paint you, I suspect they would want to see the final piece, if they knew it existed. You are welcome to tell them that you changed your mind and declined my offer."

"Grantaire, are you not capable of keeping your mouth shut for more than a minute?!" I snap.

To my irritation, you snigger. "You know that I am more than capable of doing that."

"Then please, be so kind, as to close it now and allow me speak."

Next to me I feel you shrug. "My lips are sealed."

"I think it is beautiful, Grantaire.”

"What?"

"You should be proud of your work."

"I am! I am proud. I simply hoped that... that you would be too."

Turning to face you I smile. "I am."

There is no chance to mull over the thoughts of who may keep the painting, or who is permitted to view it. You have already taken me in your large arms, bringing our, still nude, bodies together. You kiss me hard, all teeth and tongue. I kiss you back; loving the scruff of your chin rub against mine. You make me feel safe.  

Alas, as much as I would love for your talent to be shared, I am afraid of the questions that would be attached to any viewing. Our friends would be proud of you too, if they were ever to see this work. I promise you that. But I cannot take that risk, Grantaire. If they were to know how I feel about you... how we are together... they could lose faith in me and our cause. That I cannot risk.

I hope, as we laugh together, that you understand.


End file.
